When the Night is Over (Blackbird Series Book 1) Page 6

  Not an hour later, Wes peeks his head in and then makes his way over towards me smiling. I didn’t think to lock my door tonight.

  “I hated that book,” he says as he lifts the spine to see the cover. “Couldn’t get through it…Had some girl write my paper for me.”

  I have no energy for small talk. “Tell me about the accident, Wes. I want to know what happened.”

  He looks back to the door that he just closed a moment ago, making damn sure my brother is out of earshot. “What are you talking about?”

  “My brother’s accident. Tim Wade. What really happened that night?”

  “Where’s this coming from?”

  “I’ve never heard the actual story. I don’t really know how it happened.”

  He lets out a breath. “Tim Wade crashed his car into Christian’s. That’s all there is to it.” He takes the book out of my hand, folds the page down to mark it, and smiles. Wes has decided the conversation is over. “I’m making a pizza run…Take a ride with me.”

  We’re in his truck riding along a stretch of highway on our way back home. Since regaling me with every tiresome detail of his latest arrest on the way to the pizzeria—lamest diversion tactic ever—Wes has been quiet. His silence is confirmation in and of itself. If there was nothing to hide about that night, Wes wouldn’t be staring out into the distance with the troubled look he’s sporting.

  “Come on,” I plead on a weary breath. “Will you just tell me? You and I both know there’s a lot more to it than what you said back there.”

  He drags a hand through his hair. “You’re digging up some painful memories. I’d advise you not to go asking your brother about any of this.”

  “I’m not asking my brother, I’m asking you.” I stand my ground, crossing my arms over my chest to let him know I’m serious. “If you won’t tell me, I’ll ask someone else to fill in the blanks.”

  “There’s nothing more to tell.”

  “Was Timothy Wade on drugs when he hit Christian or were they drag racing?”

  He’s fidgety, shifting in his seat and tapping a rhythm out on the steering wheel even though the radio isn’t on.

  “Wes, answer me. Were they friends when it happened?”

  “We were all friends…Played football together all through high school.”

  “So what, you all turned on Tim Wade and backed my brother after it happened? Acted like Tim was the only one at fault?”

  He shoots me a warning look and then stares ahead. It’s a full minute later when he says, “It didn’t seem like it back then, but now, yeah, that seems a like a pretty accurate summary of what went down.”

  “Did my brother try to kill him?”

  Wes slows, pulls the truck over and shifts it into park. He studies me with a look that isn’t the least bit friendly. “I suggest you choose your words very carefully, Charlie.”

  “I want to know…Did my brother beat Timothy Wade up so badly that he almost died?” I don’t wait for him to answer before letting out a cheerless laugh. “I can totally picture it. Poor baby didn’t get what he wanted so someone had to pay. Someone else had to take the blame, right? Christian couldn’t accept the fact that he was responsible, that he screwed it all up.”

  Wes’s knuckles are white around the steering wheel and his jaw is tight. I remember Simon’s words and it all clicks into place. “You all did it, didn’t you?” Shaking my head, I whisper, “How many of you against one?” He doesn’t answer. “Did you use bats, pipes? Or did you punch and kick his body lifeless?”

  Wes’s face, a face I never once saw harden in my life, is now cold and unforgiving. I undo my seatbelt and open the door to, I don’t know, get some air or distance or something. The truck starts to move slowly. I jump to get out of the way, staring at the tailgate like a dumbfounded fool as he picks up speed. It doesn’t sink in until a few moments later that Wes has left me out here alone.

  Chapter Seven

  Simon

  You don’t know shit.

  Those are the words I spat at her. And the truth is that she didn’t know, she didn’t know a damn thing about what happened back then. I could see it in her eyes, the realization. I was rewriting history for her right out there in the middle of the street. I can’t keep from feeling just the slightest bit guilty that I’ve tarnished her opinion of her brother, being that she just lost her mother and all, but that’s stupid and weak on my part. Christian Mason doesn’t deserve to hide behind his lies.

  I don’t even know if she showed up to work yesterday because I kept myself busy inside most of the day. I didn’t spare one look in her direction. I can’t play it off like I’m indifferent towards her. No, even after that all went down, the polar opposite is true. I feel tethered to the girl in some fucked up way. I want Charlotte more than I want my next breath, but I won’t let myself have her. I tell myself nothing good will come of it—repeat it to myself like a mantra.

  So Monday morning when the pale blue paper falls from my locker and floats down to the floor, I don’t move to pick it up right away. I know it’s from her. I stare down at it, this radioactive thing that holds the power to crush me, while studying the delicate handwriting, the way she crafts my name. I don’t snatch it up until I hear the pack of them approaching. I stuff it in my back pocket and walk off without answering when Skylar teases, “Hot damn…Is that a love note, Simon?”

  Dear Simon,

  If you decide to rip this note up without reading it, I can’t say that I’d blame you. I’m ashamed of the way I acted on Saturday. I’m ashamed of the way I judged your brother, and of the way I blindly took my own brother’s version of events and accepted them as truth.

  So I’m sorry, that’s what I want to tell you.

  I love Christian, even though we’re not close anymore. I love him and I hate him and I pity him. I don’t expect you to ever forgive him, especially since he’s never had to pay for his sins. But I know from where he comes, and contrary to popular belief, growing up in our house was no picnic. I don’t see him in black or white terms, as good or evil. I see him as someone who is flawed and struggling, and (I hope) trying to do better. I’m sure it’s not too far off from the way you see Timmy.

  I think I have a better idea of what happened back then, both from you and from others who have filled me in. So now I understand why you look at me the way you do. I wish things were different, I really do, but at least I get it now.

  -Charlotte

  My hands were shaking when I opened the paper folded by her hands, and now that I’ve read the words, I imagine our hands are touching as I refold the paper.

  I get it now.

  No, she doesn’t. The girl thinks I hate her when nothing could be further from the truth. Her words confirm everything I thought I saw in her but couldn’t really know for sure. Maybe no one is good or evil, there are no absolutes, but there’s a beauty and goodness in Charlotte that I want her to see reflected in me.

  Everything in me hurts. I want her to know that I wish things were different too. To want someone and know you can’t be with them is the definition of pain. So instead of heading to class, I settle into a quiet corner at the top of the stairwell next to the rooftop exit. I write back to Charlotte, giving myself the freedom to tell her everything I know I’ll never say out loud.

  She’ll never read it.

  Charlotte

  I was there before the first bus pulled in, before most of the teachers arrived. My fingers trembled as I slid the letter through the top slat in his locker door, looking from side to side to make sure the hallway was empty.

  Writing to Simon was either the most courageous thing I’ve ever done or a grave mistake. Odds are good he’ll make me come to regret the decision, but right now I’m glad I did it. Writing to him felt good, lifted a burden. The note was simple but said what needed to be said. At least he knows I’m sorry.

  I wanted to say more in the letter, but I’m not that brave. I want to tell him things. I want to tell him that I like w
atching him work, I admire his strength and the way he uses it to help people who aren’t so strong. Also that I read the poem he wrote, the one about his mother that Mr. Vargas keeps on his office wall, and it made me cry. I want to tell him that when he touched my wrist the other day, it was like a shot of adrenaline to my system. I felt it everywhere—deep in my chest, the base of my spine, and out to the tip of each and every finger and toe.

  Hopefully Simon will read between the lines, he’ll know that I care about him. And if he doesn’t feel the same, even if he never speaks another word to me again, at least he knows I never meant to hurt him.

  Daisy runs into me when I stop short. “What’s up, Mason? Are you trying to take me out? I’m clumsy enough without you trying to trip me.”

  “Sorry,” I say absently. “I just need to walk.” I gesture to my side. “Cramp.”

  “Better not let that witch see you.” Daisy puts her index finger sideways under her nose and speaks in what’s supposed to pass as a German accent. “Ven I vas yur age, I could run a kilometer faster zan you can say bratwurst!”

  I laugh and wave her off. “Go!” I’m on a solo mission right now and need to concentrate. It’s no surprise that I spotted him. My eyes always look for his truck in the parking lot, just as I always set my gaze on locker number eighty-four when I pass by in the hallway. And I probably spend more time staring across the street to catch sight of him working than tending to my own customers in the diner. I never miss a chance to get a glimpse of anything associated with Simon—I’m pathetic like that.

  What is he doing? Leaning back against the passenger side door of his truck, both hands are in his hair as he looks up to the sky. It’s third period and he’s not in class. Did he find the note? Has he read it? My heart sinks. I jog at a snail’s pace, looking over every few seconds. Two more laps and he’s still in the same position. But wait, now he’s in motion. I stop in my tracks when I realize he’s heading in the direction of my car with purposeful, determined strides. I can’t make out his expression but considering the last time I saw him it was in a state of barely contained rage, I’m prepared and bracing for the sound of my front windshield shattering. The sound of the bell ringing from inside school and our teacher yelling at us to line up are muted in the background. I’m transfixed, watching as he lifts one of the front wipers and tucks something against my windshield. Simon is still there when Ms. Brunner yells at me to line up.

  There’s nothing on my car when I ask for a bathroom pass and sneak outside during fourth period. Nothing. I search the exterior of the car and even go down on my hands and knees looking underneath to see if it dropped or possibly blew away. I could have sworn I saw him place something on the windshield.

  I know what I saw, but over the next few days, Simon gives no indication that he’s received, let alone read my note. He passes me in the hallway without so much as a sideways glance. When Sienna calls me over to talk one day before class, he walks off abruptly, as if I’ve suddenly contaminated the air. During the pep rally for tonight’s basketball playoff game, I spot Simon in the top row of the bleachers, his attention fixed on the girl huddled in at his side for the duration of our dance routine.

  “Tonight I’m going to redeem myself, I promise!”

  Daisy is bouncing on her toes excitedly when I burst her bubble. “Have fun, Daisy…I’m going straight home after the game.”

  “What?” I feel bad that her mood’s taken a nosedive because of me, but there’s no way I’m going to Tyler’s party. “You have to come! I think we’re the only sophomores Sienna and Skylar invited, and they only invited me because of you.”

  I shake my head to reassure her, even though I know this is probably true. Sienna and her sister are truly nice, so I’m not being entirely fair, but I notice I’ve been on the receiving end of a whole lot of kindness lately. I’m still riding that odd wave of celebrity that comes when some terrible tragedy befalls you. Humans are predictable. We like to feel good about ourselves, see ourselves in a positive light. And nothing works better than bestowing kindness on others, especially when there’s an audience to witness your good deed.

  In seventh grade some boy in my class was diagnosed with a rare blood disorder. The rumors flew, the outlook was bleak. No one paid much attention to him before, then all of a sudden bake sales were being organized to help out with medical bills, kids who never spoke to him were writing the most heartfelt Get Well Soon cards, and the soccer coach, who never let this boy off the bench when he was in perfect health, was now donning a Do it for Brady patch on his warm up jacket, same as the one his players wore on their jerseys.

  I am currently wearing the crown. I am the girl who lost her mother.

  Daisy looks as if she’s just reminded herself of this. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

  “I’m sorry too, Daisy. I know I haven’t been the best company lately. You should go to the party. Most of the juniors are going and you’re like a freaking social butterfly…You’ll be fine.”

  “It is potentially the last game of the season.”

  I push her gently from behind as we walk into the lunchroom. “Way to have faith in our team.”

  “Please,” she whispers as she turns around, “I overheard Tyler saying they have no chance of beating Lincoln.”

  “I think he’s right.”

  Taking me by the shoulders with a gleam in her eye, she says, “I’m going to go.”

  “Good. I’d feel like a wet blanket if you stayed home because of me.”

  “If you change your mind—”

  “Pretty sure I won’t.”

  “Okay, okay. Think I could say I’m staying over at your house?”

  I don’t even reply as we roll our eyes in unison. Even though it’s never been said, we both know Daisy’s parents would never permit her to stay the night at my house where—gasp!—children are not supervised twenty-four-seven. If they ever knew the truth, that my father slept at home no more than two or three nights a week, they would have called child protective services by now.

  “Just take it easy on the drinking this time. No shots.”

  “I know,” she says, shaking her head. “I felt like crap for two days after that last party. I don’t even know if they’ll let me go tonight. Maybe if I ask my Dad to pick me up at curfew, he’ll trust me to behave myself.”

  “Right…You’re going to ask him to pick you up at Tyler’s place in the trailer park? With music blasting and drunken idiots playing beer pong out front?” Daisy laughs but looks defeated. “I’ll make you a deal. You can tell your parents we’re going out to get something to eat after the game and then I’ll come pick you up at Tyler’s and take you home. But please don’t be drunk, or I swear your parents will never let us hang out again. Sound good?”

  My tray, still thankfully empty, clatters to the floor when she grabs me in a bear hug. “Did I tell you today that I love you and that you’re the best friend ever?”

  I smile and maybe even laugh a little, but her show of affection and her words make me sad. Best friend ever? I don’t know much about true friendship, but I assume that close friends share things with one another. I certainly know a lot about Daisy. She shares on a near constant basis. But her thoughts and dreams are candy-coated and sparkly. The positive stuff is easy to share. On the flip side, Daisy knows next to nothing about me. I have dreams that are as bright as the stars too, but unlike Daisy, no one in my family is interested, let alone encouraging. I have a plan in place, and I’m determined to get out of here, but there are times when I feel so alone that I can’t envision a future that’s anything other than bleak.

  Daisy is always pure of heart, happy and hopeful. I just can’t bring myself to burden her with my bullshit.

  Last night on the drive over to Tyler’s, I started to get a little sick and tired of myself. Yes, my mother had just died and I was a hot mess in general, but I had to get on with it. I pulled up at quarter to eleven, praying that Daisy would come out at the agreed upon ti
me. Holding up one finger after another, I rattled off all the things I had to be thankful for. I had Daisy, I did have my father if I ever really and truly found myself in a jam, I had a car, I had a job—now I was on a roll. I had amassed twelve hundred dollars in the envelope I kept tucked away in a hollowed out copy of The Grapes of Wrath on my bookshelf, and I also had a lead on several scholarships after meeting with Mr. Vargas yesterday. I filled my lungs with air and nodded. Screw this Debbie downer attitude, I’m going places! And the gods were truly smiling down from Mount Olympus, because at ten to eleven on the dot, a very perky and only slightly buzzed Daisy came walking—not stumbling—out of the party, and I got her home without so much as a suspicious look from her parents.

  Simon

  I read the letter every night before I go to sleep. I don’t want to read it, but somehow the paper winds up in my hands, and then I’m opening it and feeling the emotions I felt when I penned the words. The ritual comforts me and hurts me at the same time.

  Instead of leaving it in the nightstand drawer like I usually do, I grab it this morning, tucking it into my back pocket before I leave for work. Pulling up a few minutes before my boss opens the store, I watch her from across the street. She’s setting up tables and pouring coffee for the two or three early birds already starting their day. I recite the words from memory as I watch her, imagine myself speaking them to her. In reality, I’m a coward. I’ve ignored her all this week, even done things to intentionally push her away. In the predawn hour, sitting here alone in my car, it’s only then that I’m brave enough to tell her how I feel.

  I take the page out and unfold it. It’s a long yellow sheet of legal paper crammed with words from top to bottom, filling both front and back. Looks like something Ted Kaz-whatever his name is would write—the Unabomber, yeah. It’s more like a scrawled out manifesto than a letter that’s supposed to express what I feel.